Rosebuds and Monogrammed Handkerchiefs
by Marguerite Thian
Summary: If John and Laurie were brothers, if Daisy was Beth and Laurie's daughter. If Daisy and Demi had a secret understanding


The first number they learnt, _two_; the first word they learnt, _cousin_; the first name she learnt to say, _Demi_; the first name he leant to say, _Daisy_. They grew up together, one. Their fathers were thick as thieves; mothers bonded with the strongest ties that held sisters together. They were raised, not as cousins, not as siblings, but as one. _One_.

* * *

He saw her, a fleeting little creature, stuffing little flapjacks into his rosy, chubby cheeks; a sweet, quiet little creature, folding his handkerchiefs, one by one, slowly and delicately, without a mumble, a word.

She saw him, a cheery boy, bringing her rosebuds, pinched from Aunt Jo's vase; a saucy, hardworking boy, toiling away at his work, but never forgetting to make mischief, never forgetting to show affection.

They saw each other, hand in hand, sky-blue eyes to light brown eyes, honey-brown hair to yellow hair, as one being, together, inseparable.

* * *

She watched, as he danced and swirled and away with Alice, his hands strongly planted on her waist, her face affectionately pressed against his chest. She watched, as he sat and laughed with the girl, his eyes staring so intently at her, her hand so possessively pressed on his arm.

She watched it all, feeling, with all the sisterly affection in the world she could muster, that he could have done better, that Alice, despite all her redeeming qualities, was not at all good enough for her Demi. She looked on, as they talked less and less, and as he danced, fleetingly out of her life, just as he had danced in. She looked on, as Demi disappeared from her sight, and in his place stood John, a person she did not know, a person she could not feel.

She felt empty, hollow.

Somehow, Bess, Rob and Ted were cousins, but Demi was home.

She'd learnt to tie her stays tighter, she'd learnt to put on bustles, she'd learnt to pull her curls up in the most fashionable way, she'd learnt to receive stares from the girls and whistles from the boys, she'd learnt to be the model of perfection.

But she felt empty, hollow.

Mother and Father was comfort, Aunt Meg and Uncle John was refuge, Aunt Jo and Uncle Fritz was knowledge, Aunt Amy and Uncle Fred was entertainment, Bess, Rob and Ted were cousins, but Demi, somehow, was home.

* * *

He watched, as she grew up, and became a woman of her own, artless, unaffected. He watched, as she became less and less the little creature he knew. He watched her, feeling something he had never allowed himself to feel before, the horrid urge to punch anyone who tried to get her attention in the face. And yet he was never a rash person.

He looked on, as she changed completely, her innocent childishness gone with the wind, her little voice along with it. He looked on, as Daisy slipped through his fingers, and in her place was Margaret, a woman he could not recognise, a woman he'd never seen.

He felt robbed, restless.

Somehow, Bess, Rob and Ted were cousins, but Daisy was home.

He thought, perhaps, if he married Alice, he would receive just as much, and that Alice's kisses and caresses were just as pleasant as Daisy's pies and soft coos. He thought, perhaps, he could marry Alice and take pleasure in a domestic bliss of his own, Daisy far from his mind, far from his life. He thought, perhaps, that could dampen his hopes, his fantasies that could never become reality.

But he felt robbed, restless.

Father and Mother was advice, Aunt Beth and Uncle Laurie was wisdom, Aunt Jo and Uncle Fritz was education, Aunt Amy and Uncle Fred was fun, Bess, Rob and Ted were cousins, but Daisy, somehow, was home.

* * *

She watched, as he got closer and closer with Alice, his eyes earnestly devouring her every word, her amiable tongue babbling away at aimless topics, topics she could not believe he took interest in. She watched, as he grew more and more attached, those earnest, expressive brown eyes of his following Alice everywhere, full of unspeakable devotion. She watched it all, pages and pages of emotions unfolding within her, some unknown, some unfamiliar, some never experienced.

She felt alone, lost.

Bess, Rob and Ted were cousins, but Demi was home.

She'd learnt to lace her stays even tighter, she'd learnt to take off her bustles and dress in more practical dresses, she'd learnt to keep house for Aunt Jo, she'd learnt to accept the harsh burn on her fingers when she'd learnt to start a fire, she'd learnt to be less vain, she'd learnt to look less into the looking glass, she'd learnt to be the perfect woman.

But deep down, she felt alone, lost.

Everyone around her had their own special place in her heart, but her heart was not with her. It was left home. She'd left it at home.

* * *

He watched, as she shrunk away more and more, hiding herself into the darkness, her bright, blue eyes dimmed with unshed tears, her rosy cheeks paled with exertion. He watched, as she winced in pain when she burned her fingertips trying to start a fire, and yet her lips remained sealed, full of stubbornness, female pride. He watched her, waterfalls of words tumbling out of his mind, but never out of his mouth, his feelings left unsaid, unknown.

He felt childish, regretful.

He thought, perhaps, if he freed himself from this place, this prison, he would hurt less, feel less. He thought, perhaps, if he went away to another place, he would find a new life, and forget the old one, that contained so many mixed emotions, and he only liked joy. He thought, perhaps, after he had left, that leaving his childhood behind, was a relief to all his pains, his open wounds.

But he felt childish, regretful.

Everyone in his life had their own place in his heart, but his heart was not with him. It was left home. He'd left it at home.

* * *

He could not remember how he bore it, when Bess burst into his flat that afternoon, screaming frantically, about Daisy, about the Fever, about time. But he did remember her adding, much more tranquilly, that he should not return so soon, and that Plumfield was bustling around Daisy, using every last bit of effort to keep her alive.

It all seemed very familiar, the Fever, families frantic, but someone away from home, away from the ill.

It had happened to her mother, and now it was happening to her.

He crumbled and shrank away then, his guilt eating away at him, this new sense of pain unknown to him, unexperienced, unfamiliar.

* * *

She could not remember how it all started, or how it all ended, but she did remember all her aunts working around in her room, and her poor mother, sprawled, exhausted on the side of her bed, sitting rather uncomfortably in her armchair.

It all seemed very strange, for her mother was never exhausted, Aunt Meg never agitated, Aunt Jo never quiet and Aunt Amy never obliged to work.

She felt whole, for the first time in forever, but not completely. She could never be whole again.

She crumbled then, her shoulders trembling, whimpers turning into sobs, this unwanted sensation new to her, unwelcome, unknown.

* * *

He finds her in the parlour, mending her coat, piled around her are freshly embroidered handkerchiefs, little 'D's delicately monogrammed at their corners.

She does not notice his presence, or, at least, refuses to notice his presence. She does not turn, her attention paid to the coat, and to the coat only.

He reaches her in a stride, and he drops something into her lap. She looks down: a rosebud, pinched from Aunt Jo's vase.

She looks up, her eyes, oh, her bright, earnest, sky-blue eyes stares up at him, as if she does not believe he is there.

'You looked quite as you were. I am glad to see you blossomed,' he mutters, not knowing where to look.

She stares at him still. She is afraid to call him what she wants. This is not Demi, yet it is not John. He will never be John. But he is not the boy she knew so well. He is changed, his voice, slow and steady, his hands, large and capable. But she is herself, the blushing flower, colouring at his slight words.

He offers her his arm: she does not take it. She bids him to sit down.

'You have changed so,' she returns, quietly, mournfully.

'And do you think it bad?'

'I hardly know you.'

'And yet you know me, at the bottom of your heart.'

'It is not with me. I am not in possession of my own heart. I cannot know such feelings. The power of controlling them belongs to you, and you alone.'

He starts, as if she has stabbed him, but his strong, long arms wrap around her tiny waist, possessively, assumingly. He leans in, his warm breath brushing across her cold skin. The next moment, her lips are soft on his, sweetly, with all the unspoken words tumbling out of her thin, frail form, unexpressed emotions spilling out of her strong, stubborn soul. He returns it, all his unsaid, hidden feelings pours into that one moment of passion.

It ends as it had started, unexpected and unannounced, but they feel it, a spark, a flash of secret understanding.

They sit there, staring at each other, one grabbing her rosebud, all the happiness in the world; the other caressing his handkerchief, the one she'd given him ten years ago, all the love in the world.

For one or two moments, it is all silent: she wonders if it is a dream, he wonders if it is his imagination. She marvels at his tall, strong form, and he at her thinned, frailed figure. He makes her feel safe, she makes him want to protect her and keep her close.

Ere long, she reaches out to him, and mutters, as their palms meet, 'I am home at last: home at last.'


End file.
